


Reverse

by illwick



Series: Unwind [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Dom!John, Jealous Sherlock, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Massage, Possessive Sherlock, Prostate Massage, Topping from the Bottom, bottom!John, sub!Sherlock, top!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: A casual evening in 221B turns into a little something more.





	Reverse

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter can be read as a one-off, but please note that in my series, I generally categorise John as the top and Sherlock as the bottom; this installment in a description of an occurrence in which they switch.
> 
> Following the Jude Law Threesome chapter of this series, I had several requests/inquiries regarding top!Sherlock, and whether Sherlock feels like he’s missing out on anything by not switching with John more often. I’ve already covered this topic pretty thoroughly in Part 7 of this series (“Switch”), but it seems like it might be time to circle back to that topic, now that several months have passed.
> 
> This particular chapter does involve a top!Sherlock/bottom!John dynamic. While it’s mainly deep-diving the reasons why Sherlock _doesn’t_ top very often, this is still a graphic description of them switching things up. If that bothers you or squicks you out, no need to read further! 
> 
> In that vein: I absolutely PROMISE you that there are no major plot revelations in this chapter, so if you aren’t a fan of top!Sherlock/bottom!John, you are under no obligation to read it. Please don’t hate-read this with the sole intent of complaining about it in the comments section. As I’ve explained above, this chapter is meant to describe a rare occurrence in which they change their dynamics; my future installments will be back to your regularly-scheduled top!John/bottom!Sherlock programming.
> 
> Tagging this as Light Dom/Sub even though there is not an overt power exchange in this chapter, as there are several references made to this aspect of their relationship.

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh over the pages of the medical journal he’s currently reviewing. The article was fascinating - an excerpt from an 1852 study on blood coagulation, a most intriguing synopsis of the antiquated data of the time, propped up by faulty methodology but riveting in its implications. He’d be fully invested by this point were it not for John being so bloody _distracting._

Because from where he’s perched in his chair by the fireplace, Sherlock has an unimpeded view of the kitchen, where John is hunched over the sink doing dishes. Normally Sherlock would be able to tune him out entirely, but tonight he’s taken to rolling his neck and shoulder once every 42 seconds (on average), the tension in his back obvious even from this distance.

He’d injured himself during yesterday’s rugby match. Sherlock knew it the moment it happened, but John, ever the military man, had simply maintained a stiff upper lip and played on. Once they’d gotten home, Sherlock had attempted to convince him to put some heat on it, but John had belligerently insisted he was fine. Sherlock had made to argue, but John (clever, devious John) had managed to distract him by insisting he desperately needed to shag Sherlock in the shower that very instant, and who was Sherlock to deprive him of such a pressing need? So Sherlock had willingly obliged, and they’d had a lovely time and a pair of lovely orgasms and spent a lovely evening in domestic bliss, and John’s injury had rather slipped Sherlock’s mind.

But that meant of course tonight, John had arrived home from the surgery with pain clearly etched into the wrinkles at the corners his eyes, struggling to tote Rosie up the stairs with his non-dominant arm. Sherlock had swooped in to help, and he’d even managed to convince John to recline on the couch for a bit with a heating pad while Sherlock took care of Rosie’s feeding and bedtime routine, but when he’d come downstairs from the nursery, he’d found John resolutely at his post in front of the kitchen sink, making his way through the dinner dishes with a look of grim determination on his face.

Sherlock knew better than to try and talk him out of it, so he’d resigned to watching John suffer and withdrew to the sitting room to finish up with his reading.

But watching John suffer, as it turns out, was not something Sherlock could abide. John’s discomfort was so utterly distracting, Sherlock had read the same paragraph no fewer than six times, and he still hadn’t absorbed a word of it. Finally, he loses his patience.

“It’s a strain of your rhomboid major, John. You need rest and heat and a good massage.”

“It’s my rotator cuff, Sherlock,” John snaps back. He doesn’t turn around. “I’ll need an x-ray. Not only that, but it’s my bad shoulder, too. Probably set back years of progress. Stupid, I should have known better…” He trails off and sets a plate in the drying rack with altogether more force than strictly necessary. The rest of the dishware gives a disconcerting clatter.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and wills himself to be delicate. He rises from his chair, deposits his magazine on the desk, and makes his way to the kitchen.

“It’s not your rotator cuff, John.”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, only one of us here has a medical degree. I’m fairly certain I know a rotator cuff injury when I feel one.”

“You’re being fatalistic about this. Rotator cuff is your worst-case scenario. But this isn’t that. The pain carries over too close to your spine, doesn't it? Right here.” Sherlock presses on the tender spot.

John yelps and spins around, splashing Sherlock with the soapy water from his sponge. “Christ. A little warning would be nice.” He looks beyond peeved, but Sherlock reminds himself that nothing makes John saltier than feeling infirm, so he doesn’t engage. He simply picks up the dish towel, dabs the soap from the front of his shirt, and takes a deep breath.

“My apologies. But honestly, John, it’s just a strain. If you go in for a massage tomorrow, you’ll feel better immediately. I’ll even make the appointment for you.”

“No.” John turns sullenly back to the sink.

Sherlock is rather taken aback; he’d assumed John would be so impressed with his helpfulless, he’d capitulate immediately. He proceeds with caution. “But taking the tension out of the strain is the first course of treatment, and from there we can determine--”

“No massages. Thanks.”

Sherlock cocks his head. So it wasn’t the treatment _itself_ John was resisting, it was the _type_ of treatment? Curious. Now he’s simply intrigued.

“No massages? Is that a blanket rule for you?”

“I’m not a fan.”

That’s a lie. For all his hyper-masculine tendencies, John Watson delighted in a wide variety of corporeal pleasures, that much Sherlock knows. Not only that, but unlike Sherlock, John wasn’t particularly touch-averse; he was free with handshakes and hugs, and engaged in a wide variety of demonstrations of physical affection with his close friends and rugby mates. There was no way he wouldn’t enjoy an occasional massage.

Sherlock can’t resist prying. “But surely you received them as part of your treatment when you were invalided…”

John pulls the plug in the sink and the dishwater drains noisily from the basin. He dries his hands and turns to face Sherlock, a guarded expression on his face.

“Sherlock, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

The tips of his ears are pink. _Pink._ Now, that’s a curious turn-up indeed. When John was angry, his ears would turn bright red, but pink indicates he’s either embarrassed or _aroused._ How perfectly _odd._

Sherlock narrows his eyes and chooses his next words carefully; he’ll have to proceed with caution to deduce what he needs to know. “You enjoy massages. You delight in giving them to me, and your technique demonstrates you’ve had a fair amount of experience with them--it’s not just something you can learn from a video on the internet. You learned about it first-hand. And yet now you’re insisting you don’t want one?”

John closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head, issuing a withering sigh. “I don’t know why I even bother trying to keep anything from you. You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

Sherlock grins delightedly, victory at hand. “Not a chance.”

“Fine. Put the kettle on and make us some tea. I’m going to go put on my pajamas, and then we’ll sit down and have a nice long chat about my aversion to massages. It’ll be a rolicking good time.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock gives him a triumphant smile before turning to fetch the kettle.

They reconvene a few minutes later in their respective chairs in front of the fireplace. The weather had turned unseasonably warm in the past few days, so an actual fire was out of the question, but it still felt like the most natural place for a chat.

Sherlock hands John a mug, and John takes it with only a slight grimace before lowering himself to sit down. Sherlock stares back at him in rapt anticipation.

“Alright. So. Massages.” John clears his throat and takes a sip of tea. Sherlock leans forward eagerly.

“You’re right. When I was invalided home, after my initial two rounds of surgery, I was prescribed a regular massage regimen as part of my ongoing treatment.” Sherlock nods - so far, this aligned perfectly with his deductions. “My massage therapist was a young woman named Kate. She’d been working with the hospital for a little over a year, and was assigned to me for my regular treatments. She was… well, she was pretty and bubbly and sweet, and honestly, she was the first woman I’d had consistent contact with since I’d been deployed.” 

Wait a second-- this wasn’t the direction Sherlock was anticipating things to go at all. He can feel his brow knitting into a scowl. 

“I was comfortable around her, too. When I first came home, the sight of my injury… I mean, you’ve seen the scars, the infection had been so aggressive, and at that time, it looked even more grotesque than it does now.” Sherlock wants to chime in--say something about the fact that John’s scars aren’t grotesque _at all,_ they’re lovely and beautiful and fascinating-- but something about the far-off look in John’s eyes stops him and the words die on his tongue.

“Anyway, knowing that Kate saw that sort of thing every day, well, it made me feel confident again, knowing it was normal for her. And so we quickly, um, we became… intimate.”

Sherlock clears his throat and looks away, pretending to gaze at something endlessly fascinating on the mantle. He feels a bit chilled all over, except for his cheeks, which are unnaturally hot. 

He hates thinking about John’s past lovers. He knows there were… Well, he knows there were a lot of them. John doesn’t bring it up, and he tries to gloss over the topic whenever he can, but there’s no avoiding the fact that when it came to their numbers, Sherlock’s agonisingly aware of the fact that John’s well into the double-digits, while Sherlock’s still at a steadfast 1. He knows it shouldn’t bother him, but still...

“We continued our relationship throughout my rehabilitation. When it was time for my discharge from the hospital, I finally asked her out on a proper date.”

Sherlock flicks his eyes back to John’s face. “...And?”

John chuckles forlornly. “Well, as it turns out, she wasn’t much one for relationships. I felt slighted at first, but found out not long after that as it turned out, she made rather a _habit_ of providing companionship for the soldiers in her care. I certainly wasn’t the only one she was involved with at the time. My thoughts of a future with her were just delusions; something tangible to grasp onto when I thought about the overwhelming prospect of a civilian future.”

Sherlock nods slowly. “So she… ruined massages for you?”

John laughs, an honest, bright sound, and Sherlock frowns slightly; he’s not quite sure what he’s said that’s so funny.

“No, not exactly. After my discharge, it was recommended that I continue massage therapy along with physical therapy, and so I tried to.”

“But?”

“Well…” John’s cheeks have turned a rather endearing shade of pink to match the tips of his ears. “Well, as it turns out, I’d developed a rather _pavlovian_ response to massages.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “You get an erection.”

John chuckles. “Well… yeah.”

“But I’ve heard that’s actually quite common. Most masseuses are willing to overlook it.”

John shakes his head. “Be that as it may, it’s bloody _mortifying._ There’s little in this world more humiliating than sporting a massive hard-on while an overweight Swedish grandmother works over your mangled shoulder. It was awkward as hell, Sherlock, so I stopped going.”

Sherlock purses his lips. “That seems an awful shame. Would you perhaps be willing to partake if I were the one administering it?”

John gives him a skeptical look. “Just a few minutes ago, weren’t you saying that the techniques weren’t something you could just pick up on the internet?”

Sherlock gives him his most condescending glare. “I meant for the _average_ person, John. Between my encyclopedic knowledge of anatomy and my first-hand experience of the massages you’ve given me, I’m confident I could at least provide you some sort of relief.”

John looks unconvinced, so Sherlock switches up tactics. “What’s the worst that could happen? You hate the massage but end up with a massive hard-on and I’m forced to suck you off because you’re being inconsolable?”

John finally breaks, snickering as he rolls his eyes. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Come on.” Sherlock rises and extends his hand, and do his distinct pleasure, John takes it and allows himself to be led to the bedroom.

John wastes no time getting down to business; by the time Sherlock has closed the bedroom door, he’s already stripping off his pajamas. He shucks his pants and makes his way towards the bed without hesitation.

“Wait!” John freezes and gives Sherlock an inquisitive glance. “Give me… just, give me a second, alright? I need to get some… things.” Sherlock scuttles off to the bathroom, leaving a rather perplexed-looking John Watson in his wake.

He returns moments later with his arms full, and John looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What’s all this?”

“Towels. Massage oil - I took the one under the bathroom sink that we usually use for my aftercare, I’m assuming that’s alright? And, um, those ridiculous lavender candles you like to use when you’re in the bath.”

John seems to be holding back a giggle. “My, we aren’t taking any half-measures here, are we?”

“Well, I need to be sure that this is better than whatever bloody _Kate_ was offering you,” Sherlock mutters half under his breath, and John shakes his head witheringly before closing his eyes and waving his hand absently in the direction of the bed.

Sherlock approaches the bed with a flourish and begins to set the scene. He strips off the duvet and all of the pillows before spreading out a clean, fluffy bath towel over the sheet. He places the candles on the nightstand and lights them with the lighter in his pocket (from behind him, John issues an indignant huff, and Sherlock kicks himself for forgetting that John would _clearly_ not be pleased to see Sherlock had a lighter on him-- he’d broken down and had two whole cigarettes last week, but was trying to keep John from finding out… Well, he’d bollocksed that up, but figures he’ll do his best to take John’s mind off the matter). Then he places the bottle of massage oil on the bed and turns to face John, who’s watching him with a rather bemused expression on his face.

“Now. What should I be wearing?”

John gives him an odd look. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean,_ what did your little masseuse friend wear when she was servicing you that got you so hot and bothered?”

John’s barely able to hold back his laughter, and Sherlock gives him an indignant glare. “Sherlock, it wasn’t her _outfit_ I was into, it was her… well, her personality, and her hands, and--”

“Please stop before you say ‘tits.’”

“I wasn’t going to say ‘tits,’ Sherlock.”

“No, but I can hear you thinking it.”

“For Christ’s sake, just take your damn clothes off and be done with it, alright?”

“Fine.” Sherlock strips as rebelliously as possible, as though daring John to comment further.

John does not.

Sherlock crosses his arms in front of himself and stares at John expectantly. John’s cock is starting to swell a bit, clearly responding to Sherlock’s nudity (and perhaps anticipating the massage), but he looks more entertained than aroused, and Sherlock is starting to feel more than a bit offended.

John takes the hint. “Oh! Um, I’ll just… lie down now, yeah?”

Sherlock gives him a curt nod, and John settles face-down on the bed, sighing contentedly. Sherlock flicks off the light, and stands over him.

And dear God above, John Watson is gorgeous. Sherlock forgets sometimes, in the hasty bustle of their everyday lives, just how fucking _beautiful_ John is, with his solid, sinewy muscles and beautifully contoured curves. He’s small and compact and packed with raw, unfiltered _power,_ the kind that makes Sherlock go weak in the knees when he thinks too hard about it. Here in the candlelight, he’s acutely aware of every peak and every valley rising and falling beneath John’s golden skin, and his heart seems to skip a beat as he takes it all in. Particularly pronounced in this position is John’s glorious arse, muscular and strong and the perfect size to fit in Sherlock’s palms so he could feel the muscles flexing as John fucked deeply into him, overpowering him, claiming him…

Jesus.

He shakes himself out of his stupor with a start, and clambers onto the bed with rather less dignity than he’d been hoping. His cock, which previously had been rather disinterested in the matter at hand, was now taking a definitive interest in the proceedings, and as he straddles John’s prone form, his breath hitches a bit in his throat.

“Alright, so.” Sherlock puts on his most soothing voice, the deep, rumbly tone that he knows John adores. “I think I’ll just start with your lower back and work my way up. We’ll leave the muscle in question for the end, I think, so you’ll be nice and relaxed.”

John issues a non-committal hum. Sherlock picks up the massage oil and pours some into his palms, then makes sure to rub them together to warm it before touching John’s skin (while it’s true John’s only ever given Sherlock massages as part of his aftercare routine, meaning Sherlock was usually pretty out of it, over time he’s picked up on a few of John’s best tricks). Slowly, he beings to apply pressure as he moves his fingers in deliberate, deep strokes.

For a few minutes, everything is quiet, almost eerily so. There’s just the sound of Mrs. Hudson’s water pipes clanging in the distance, the soft buzz from Rosie’s baby monitor, and the sound of John’s deep, rhythmic breathing. Sherlock steadies himself, and focuses on the task at hand.

But then he moves a bit higher to work on John’s Latissimus dorsi, and suddenly, John lets out a moan so obscene that Sherlock is frankly a bit startled. He freezes for a moment, his hands mid-stroke, attempting to suss out exactly what was happening.

“Nnngh. Don’t stop.” John’s words are muffled against the towel, and Sherlock hastily resumes his ministrations. Beneath his hands, John’s body goes lax, and he moans again.

Sherlock works the muscle over with slow, steady precision, before moving further up John’s back. John’s breathing is rapidly escalating, and Sherlock can detect his signature sex-flush spreading from his neck to the backs of his shoulders. Sherlock swallows as his cock gives traitorous pulse from where it’s resting on John’s lower back.

“Mmm. Sherlock. Move… scootch down a bit, yeah? So you’re sitting on my thighs?”

Sherlock complies, shimmying awkwardly down from where he’d been perched atop John’s arse. He settles easily onto John’s thighs, but as he does so, his cock slots resolutely into John’s crack. His stomach does a strange little somersault. 

But before he can second-guess himself, John moans again. “Oh, fuck, yeah, that’s perfect.” John clenches his arsecheeks around Sherlock’s turgid length, and Sherlock gasps helplessly at the sensation. Surely John hadn’t intended to do that-- it must have been an involuntary reflex. He steadies himself, and resumes working his way up John’s back.

By the time he reaches the impacted muscle, John seems to be nearly beside himself with lust. He’s panting and moaning rather obscenely, and as professional as Sherlock is attempting to keep things, he can’t help but rut gently against John’s arse as he works his nimble fingers resolutely into the ligaments surrounding his Rhomboid minor. He needs to hurry this up and provide John some relief so that he can flip John over and provide him with some relief of a very different kind. His mouth waters just thinking about how perfect the velvety skin of John’s member will feel against his tongue…

“Nnnnngh, oh, Christ, right there! Right there, Sherlock, oh, Sherlock, there! There!” Sherlock digs his fingers deeply into the impacted tissue, and beneath him, John’s fingers twist in the bedsheet. Suddenly, John begins to thrust against the mattress, without a single iota of shame.

Sherlock sucks in a desperate breath through his teeth. The gyration of John’s pelvis means his arsecheeks are sliding ever so slightly back and forth around his rock-hard cock, and the friction is causing Sherlock’s brain to short-circuit. He tries to maintain his focus on the pressure he’s applying to the muscle beneath his fingers.

“Oohhhhhh, God, yes. Mmmm, just like that. Um, mmm, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock pauses, alleviating the pressure on John’s shoulder to peer down at him.

“Could you… uh, would you mind… could, um…” John trails off, his sex-flush spreading further down his back.

“Could I what, John? Just ask.” Sherlock keeps his tone light, though he’s feeling a bit apprehensive; usually John has absolutely _no_ qualms whatsoever about making his sexual demands known, so this was quite unusual indeed.

“Could you, um, finger me a bit?”

The request takes Sherlock so off-guard that he noticeably recoils, sitting back firmly onto John’s thighs and pulling his cock away from where it had been resolutely pressing against John’s arse.

It’s a beat before he’s able to form a sentence, and he feels rather like he’s swallowed an ice cube. “Is that… Is that what _Kate_ did for you?”

Beneath him, John utters a frustrated groan. “Jesus, Sherlock, no, she didn’t. As I’ve assured you before, you’re the only person I’ve ever let penetrate me. I wasn’t lying. I just… the thought of it sounds nice right now, if you’d be so amenable.”

Sherlock huffs, but must admit he feels slightly reassured by John’s confirmation. It was somehow comforting to him that despite John’s countless conquests, _he_ was the only man John had ever been with, and the only person John had ever let inside of him. It made him still feel _special._

“Oh. Oh, alright then. Yes, of course, I can… I can do that.” Sherlock shuffles clumsily backwards on his knees, and beneath him, John lifts his hips expectantly.

“Can you… um, could I maybe spread my legs, and you kneel between them?”

“Oh! Right, yes, that… that makes sense. Okay.” Sherlock awkwardly shifts to allow John to spread his legs, and then he resolutely settles back between them and takes a deep breath.

Anal play with John was an extremely rare occurrence. In the entirety of their relationship, Sherlock had only ever actually topped him a handful of times-- and half of those had been during sessions, during which John continued to dominate him throughout the process. Making love with Sherlock on top was an infrequent novelty, and he finds the familiar butterflies taking flight in his stomach as he reaches for the massage oil and slicks up one finger.

But this would be fine. He could do this. John would direct him, and Sherlock would follow his instructions, and John would love it. This would be fine.

With a resolute nod to no one but himself, Sherlock reaches down to part John’s cheeks with one hand, then begins to circle his rim with the slick finger of the other.

John moans appreciatively, and cants his hips suggestively. “Oh, yeah. That feels good, mmm, lovely.”

Sherlock feels a bit warm and tingly all over.

He toys with John’s rim for a bit longer, ensuring he’s well-lubricated and relaxed. Beneath him, John remains languid and pliant; this is clearly working for him. Slowly, Sherlock presses his index finger inside.

“Oooooooooh, yes. Mmmmm, love, that’s amazing. Oh, yeah. Mmmm….”

Sherlock’s cock jumps expectantly at the sensation of the hot, tight heat around his finger. He struggles to keep his mind clear as he moves his finger in and out a few times, slicking John’s passage thoroughly, before crooking his finger to press ever so lightly against John’s prostate.

“OH YES! Gah, Sherlock, yeah, that’s it, love. Oh, mmmm. Mmmm. So perfect. That’s so perfect. Nnngh, can you… can you… my shoulder at the same time?”

“Oh! Um, yes, I think so, just let me…” Sherlock kneels up and reaches forward with his spare hand to work his fingers into the agitated muscle once more.

“Oh, FUCK! Sorry, sorry, I’m just… that’s bloody incredible, Sherlock. Christ, don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop…”

So Sherlock devotes himself single-mindedly to massaging John’s prostate lightly with one finger, while working over his shoulder resolutely with his spare hand. Beneath him, John all but goes to pieces; his sex-flush has now spread down as far as his buttocks, and he’s glistening with a light sheen of sweat that looks so erotic in the flickering candlelight, Sherlock is growing increasingly concerned that his hard drive might short-circuit.

When John speaks again, his voice is low and ragged. “Sherlock? Could you add another finger? Stretch me out a bit?”

Sherlock blinks down at him, then manages to form a response. “I...of… of course, yes, of course I can, just let me…” He hastily withdraws his finger and grabs the oil, then applies a generous dose to two fingers before working them slowly inside.

John lets out a low groan. 

Sherlock stills. “Is this… alright?”

“Oh, fuck, yes, love. It feels so good. Stretch me open a little, please?”

“Of course, John, here, I’ll…” With that, Sherlock undulates his fingers rhythmically in and out of John’s hole, waiting for the muscles to give way before he begins to part his fingers, scissoring them gently.

“Ooooooh, YES, God, Sherlock, yes!” John begins to thrust against the mattress again, and Sherlock shakes off the feeling of lightheadedness threatening to overwhelm him. He knows John can’t come from prostate stimulation (he usually loses his erection during anal stimulation, which he’s assured Sherlock over and over again is completely normal, and is no indication of how pleasurable he finds the experience-- which Sherlock, much to his dismay, had confirmed from a quick fact-check on the internet. For his own part, he found prostate stimulation to be his preferred method of attaining orgasm, so the idea of it being impossible for some men was rather dumbfounding to him), but that doesn’t mean John’s not aroused, and judging by the volume of the sounds he’s making, he seems to be enjoying it rather a lot. Sherlock feels quite pleased with himself.

Once he’s worked up a steady rhythm with his fingers, he reaches up with his free hand and begins to work on John’s shoulder once more.

For a while, John seems content to surrender himself to the sensations as Sherlock works him over with devoted precision. He moans and sighs and rocks his hips as his knuckles whiten where he’s gripping the sheets, and Sherlock quivers as he commits every glorious second of it to his Mind Palace. To have John Watson like this… it is a privilege beyond compare.

After a while, John lapses into a rather disconcerting silence. Sherlock slows the pace of his fingers, and pulls his hand away from John’s shoulder. “John? Are you alright?”

There’s a long pause before John answers. When he finally speaks, his voice is a bit unsteady. “Sherlock? How would you feel about… um, about fucking me?”

“Now?” Sherlock feels a bit panicky at the thought. He wasn’t… he wasn’t expecting this, it was a _Monday night,_ for Christ’s sake, not some _special occasion,_ he hadn’t _prepared,_ he was going to make a mess of everything…

“Only… only if you want to. It’s just… something about this is feeling _really_ good, love, you’re making me feel _so good,_ and I’d like to keep going with it, if you’re… if you’re amenable.”

“I… um…”

“I’ll talk you through it, yeah? One step at a time? You don’t need to worry, you know I’ve got you.” John raises himself onto his forearms and twists around so that he’s able to look Sherlock in the eye, and his gaze is calm and his tone is light and reassuring.

The tightness in Sherlock’s chest dissipates entirely. Of _course_ he could do this for John. John would make sure everything went just right.

He nods and shoots John a resolute smile, and John beams back at him before lowering himself face-down onto the towel once more.

“Mmm, alright, so first, add another finger.” Sherlock withdraws his hand to add more oil, then presses into John with three digits this time. John gasps and spreads his legs further, allowing Sherlock to sink into to his knuckles. “Ohhhhh, that’s perfect. Just like that. You can move your fingers a bit, love, make sure I’m nice and open for you, just--OH! Yes, there! Mmmm, fuck, Sherlock, you’ve got the most incredible fingers. Have I ever told you that? They’re brilliant, you’re brilliant, you’re--OH, nnnngh! YES!” Sherlock twists his wrist so that his middle finger is stimulating John’s prostate, while scissoring his pointer and ring finger to add stretch. He’s felt John do this to him a million times, and he knows the exact angle that feels the best. The moment he hits it, John lets out a pornographic moan, and Sherlock focuses his full attention on maintaining the stimulation with precision.

Before he knows it, John is gasping and shaking beneath him. “Oh, love, that’s incredible. I’m… I’m ready for you now. You feeling alright?”

“Yes, John.” The words sound a bit thick in his throat, but he’s not panicking. John feels loose and relaxed around his fingers; this was just as it should be.

He withdraws his hand and fumbles for the lube they keep in the nightstand. John sighs contentedly into the mattress, raising his hips a bit in offering. Sherlock swallows hard, pours a bit of lube into his palm, then freezes entirely.

“Oh! I… should I… should I get a condom?” From their past experimentation, they’d very quickly learned that unlike Sherlock, John didn’t much care for the sensation of come inside of him. As a result, the few times since then they’d done it this way ‘round, Sherlock had taken to wearing a condom, to keep the cleanup easy and non-invasive.

“If you want. Or just pull out before you come, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure, fine…” Sherlock nods to no one in particular, then slicks up his cock with a few light, efficient strokes. He’s pleased to note he’s still hard; sometimes if he got too nervous, it would take him a while for his cock to get back in the game. But tonight, his transport seems to be cooperating wholeheartedly.

Finally, everything is in order. He leans forward, then pauses, unsure of exactly how to proceed. Luckily, John takes the hint and steps in.

“Alright, love. I’m nice and open for you, but just take it slow, okay? Just put the head in first, then give me a second to adjust.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock uses his clean hand to pull John’s left arsecheek open, exposing his hole. It’s wet and glistening in the candlelight, and so goddamn erotic he feels like his heart might beat out of his chest. But he doesn’t allow himself to get lost in the vision; he reaches down to steady the base of his cock, then guides the tip inside.

“Ohhhhh…” John lets out a low gasp, and Sherlock can feel his hole clench against the intrusion. His first instinct is to panic and pull out, but he knows better by now-- John just needs time. He holds perfectly still, and waits for John’s body to adjust.

“Mmmmmmm. That feels amazing, love. Give me… just give me a second… nnnngh, that’s good. So good.”

Something warm flutters in Sherlock’s chest. It’s _good._ He feels _good._ John is enjoying this. Sherlock can feel himself relax, while around his cock, John’s body does the same. He feels the tension dissipate as John’s hole begins to dilate, the pressure lessening ever so slightly. He leans forward to brace his hands on either side of John’s head, then starts to move his hips in short, light undulations.

Sherlock loved to be impaled. One of his favourite moments during sex was the moment John would breach him in one slick slide, filling him up with that gorgeous, pulsing burn. It made him feel wild and filthy and so beautifully _claimed,_ the pleasure and pain intermingling into a suffocating wave of desire.

John, on the other hand, had turned out to be the exact opposite; he preferred penetration to be a slow, incremental process, to allow himself to adjust gradually to the stretch and burn. Any sensation of discomfort caused him to seize up entirely, rendering the entire operation a failure.

It was one of the many, _many_ reasons they switch so rarely; for Sherlock, it felt as if being penetrated had come to him as naturally as breathing, while for John, it was a long series of trial and error. And sure, there had been a learning curve for both of them all those years ago when John was new to having sex with a man (and Sherlock was new to having penetrative sex full-stop), but Sherlock can’t recall a single instance in which they’d had to abort the encounter altogether; whereas when they tried to switch, things seemed to go wrong almost as often as they went right. Luckily, when things went wrong, they’d simply switch back to their usual positions and conclude the encounter in their customary manner, rendering the switch an odd, awkward sort of foreplay to the main event.

Sherlock isn’t sure which way things will go tonight, but he wills himself to remain in the moment as he gently works his cock more deeply into John in incremental strokes.

Beneath him, John lets out a garbled shout, his hands flying up to grab the slats of headboard as his legs part further as if on instinct, and Sherlock surges forward to sink deeper into the beautiful, wet heat with a sultry moan.

Every instinct in his body is telling him to _thrust, hard,_ to bottom out and move ruthlessly into the slick channel beneath him, but he fights the urge with every fibre of his being. Instead, he keeps his strokes light and non-invasive, pressing no more than half his cock into John while he gets further adjusted.

Eventually, John’s shouts turn to moans, then to sighs, and before he knows it, John’s twisting his head to the side to try and meet Sherlock’s eye.

“Ohhhhh, love, that’s so perfect. You’re doing so well, I feel amazing. How are you feeling?”

“Good, John.” Sherlock tries his best to sound casual, but his voice sounds unnaturally high and tight, and John _laughs,_ he actually _laughs,_ which causes his hole to clench and seize in the most gloriously magnificent way, and Sherlock’s hips stutter a bit as he gasps in pleasure, resisting the urge to plunge unceremoniously all the way inside.

“I’m glad. If you’re feeling ready, I think I can take you all the way now. Nice and slow, though, alright? I’ll stop you if I need to.”

“Oh--yes, okay, good! Good, okay, let me, um…” Sherlock pauses mid-thrust to centre himself. He closes his eyes and focuses on the task at hand: _make John feel good._ “Alright, John. I’m ready.”

“Go ahead now, Sherlock. I’m ready for you.”

As slowly as he can, Sherlock presses forward, his cock slipping past the halfway point, disappearing into the tight, delicious warmth, hot and wet and so fucking _incredible,_ he can barely breathe with the perfection of it. He keeps his progress achingly gradual, giving John plenty of time to stop him if he needs to.

But John doesn’t stop him. Before Sherlock knows it, he’s root-deep in John’s arse, his pelvis coming to rest resolutely on John’s flexing buttocks. Beneath him, John is letting out odd, high, breathy sighs, his legs twitching helplessly where they’re splayed out beside him, his knuckles going white where they’re gripping the slats of the headboard.

“I’m… I’m in, John, I’m all the way in.” Sherlock sounds a little dumbstruck, even to himself. “Are… are you alright?”

“Nnngh, yeah, just… hold really, really still for a second, alright?” John’s voice is a bit higher than usual, but he doesn’t sound panicked; he sounds calm and in control, and Sherlock grasps onto the command like a life jacket in choppy seas. He freezes and closes his eyes, and focuses on his breathing.

Which should be easy, except that it suddenly occurs to him that he can _feel John’s pulse_ around his _cock,_ and _holy shit_ if that isn’t the most intoxicating sensation in the world. He redirects his focus from his breathing to instead count John’s heartbeats (which is one of his favourite pastimes anyway, though he’d never admit it), the fact that he’s feeling them from _inside_ John instead of against his chest, well, that’s rather something, isn’t it…

“Nnnnngh. Nnngh.” John wriggles lightly around where he’s impaled, adjusting to the sensation, and Sherlock’s eyes fly open as he feels him move.

“Okay, John?”

“Oh, Sherlock, so much more than okay.” John’s hands relinquish their death grip on the headboard, and he moves them until they’re resting palms-up beside Sherlock’s, an open invitation. “Come here and just be with me for a little bit, yeah? Lie down on me, hold my hands. Just want to feel you, love. Come here.”

Sherlock goes, his mind clear of anything that’s not John Watson’s will. He lowers his torso until he’s resting with his chest pressed against John’s back, the delicious feeling of skin-on-skin lighting up entirely new centres of his brain that until moments ago had been dormant. He falls to his forearms and places his hands in Johns, who entwines their fingers with a satisfied sigh. Then John turns his head as far to the side as he can, and he doesn’t need to say a word for Sherlock to understand what he needs; he dips his head and captures John’s lips in a searing kiss.

And they kiss and kiss and kiss for what feels like ages, losing themselves in the slick slide of tongues and lips and teeth. Sherlock eventually notices that he’s absent-mindedly grinding little circles with his pelvis, not enough to truly stimulate either of them, but enough to relax John’s passage even further. It feels incredible, but somehow secondary to the blinding thrill of having John’s lips against his own, and John’s strong hands holding his, a steady anchor in a sea of sensations.

At long last, John pulls away breathlessly. “Mmmm, Christ, Sherlock, you feel _so good._ You feel _so good inside me tonight._ Would you like to start moving now?”

Sherlock takes a mental assessment of his status. He knows why John is checking in; while Sherlock has gotten more confident about the initial act of penetration, he still sometimes loses focus when he grows close to orgasm. The idea of losing control of his transport while he’s supposed to be _in charge of not hurting John_ scares him half to death, and more than once he’s ended an encounter because he became too overwhelmed with the sensations and panicked that he couldn’t show restraint in his current state. While John had always insisted Sherlock had _never_ hurt him while he was topping, Sherlock couldn’t trust himself, and he despised the feeling.

But tonight, he’s feeling good. He’s feeling calm, under control, and he has to admit he’s enjoying himself rather a lot. 

He gives John a small smile. “Yes. I think I’m ready.”

John turns to bury his face in the towel beneath him, and sets his shoulders resolutely. “Alright. Start moving now, love. Remember what we talked about: just listen to your body, move how your body wants, there’s no one right way to do this. Your body will tell you what feels good, and chances are, that’s what’s going to feel good for me, too. If it doesn’t, I’ll let you know. But otherwise, Sherlock, just think about how _good_ you’re making me feel, okay?”

“Okay, John.”

Keeping John’s hands resolutely held in his, he raises himself onto his forearms, and begins to thrust.

And oh, _God,_ it’s transcendent. It feels _so fucking amazing,_ so _unlike anything else,_ so _completely and utterly consuming,_ he thinks his blood might be on fire. John’s passage is slick and vice-tight, and Sherlock undulates his pelvis in deep, rhythmic movements, pulling nearly all the way out before surging back in with renewed vigor. He sets a steady pace, and leans into the sensations.

Beneath him, John lets out a deep moan. His hands squeeze Sherlock’s tight, but Sherlock reminds himself that John isn’t in pain; if John were in pain, John would let him know. John is _enjoying_ himself. John is letting Sherlock _pleasure_ him. Sherlock is making John feel _good._

A strange little grunt escapes his lips, and he leans forward to press his mouth wetly to John’s C7 vertebrae. John lets out a hiss and cranes his neck, encouraging Sherlock to feast on the beautiful expanse of golden skin. Sherlock obliges, kissing and licking his way up and down John’s neck and shoulders as he rocks into him, worshipping him, all the while clinging to John’s hands, which tighten resolutely around his own.

Eventually, Sherlock licks his way to the scar tissue on John’s injured shoulder. The area is mottled with thick, deformed tissue, first ravaged by the sniper’s bullet, then again by the resulting infection. John hates his scar, but Sherlock _adores_ it. He does his best to ignore it most of the time (John’s admitted it makes him feel uncomfortable when he catches Sherlock examining it, so Sherlock always tries to restrain himself), but tonight, John arches his back and pushes the tissue up against Sherlock’s roving lips, and Sherlock indulges himself, sucking and licking at the area while beneath him, John utters a series of odd, irregular gasps.

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh! Sher--! Oh! Ah! Ah! Ah!” John sounds a bit dazed, and Sherlock grins deviously as he nips coquettishly at the skin, coupling it with a series of exceptionally well-aimed thrusts. “OH! Sher! Lock! Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Ahhhhhh!”

“Mmmmmmm _Joooohn….”_ Sherlock breaths John’s name hotly into the crook of his neck, and beneath him, John arches, his pelvis rising further off the bed, allowing Sherlock deeper access. Sherlock takes full advantage and adjusts the angle of his penetration, aiming directly for John’s prostate.

It works. “AUGH!” John’s hands release their grip on Sherlock’s and fly back to the headboard, where he begins to brace himself against Sherlock’s increasingly vigorous thrusts. “AUGH! Oh! THERE! THERE! AGAIN! MORE! Fuck, Sherlock, oh FUCK, THERE!”

Sherlock pulls himself off his forearms and rises up on his hands and knees, his cock slipping wetly from John’s hole. John gives a bereft whimper, and shoots Sherlock a frankly scandalised look over his shoulder. “What are you doing? That was perfect, you had it--”

 _“Patience,_ John.” Sherlock takes a deep breath and places both hands on John’s shoulders. Then in one smooth motion, he runs his thumbs firmly up the tendons lining his spine, and drives his cock directly back inside.

“GAH! OH, FUCKING HELL, JESUS CHRIST, SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! FUCK, FUCK, OH! OH! AH! AH! AH! AH!”

John is _gone._ He’s so lost in pleasure, he’s writhing helplessly beneath Sherlock as Sherlock resolutely works him over, devoting every fibre of his being to satisfying him. He massages John’s shoulders with utmost precision, while at the same time, he pistons his cock relentlessly against his prostate. Sherlock’s fairly certain he’s never pleased John this much when topping him before, and he feels a sharp swell of pride as he watches the man he loves go to pieces before him. 

But of course, it could never last. He eventually makes a single fatal error: he looks down to observe the place where his length is disappearing over and over again into John’s body.

Because suddenly, he becomes blazingly aware that he is _fucking John Watson._ Brilliant, amazing, _perfect_ John Watson, Conductor of Light, Best Friend, Curator of Heinous Jumpers and Kindest and Wisest Human Being Sherlock Holmes has Ever Known, and Sherlock is _fucking him,_ putting his cock _inside John’s body_ in rhythmic little motions that make John’s gluteus maximus bounce pertly with each forceful thrust against them, and oh _God, it’s too much,_ he’s _inside John’s arse,_ a place John’s never allowed another human being to touch him, and he’s letting _Sherlock_ put his _cock_ in there, and oh God, oh God…

He only becomes aware that he’s making pathetic, helpless little wailing sounds when he hears John calling his name-- but his voice sounds strangely distant, as if underwater.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, it’s--oh, ah! Ah!-- it’s alright, you’re alright, love, it’s okay, you’ve got this, you’re perfect, you’re-- oh! Oh! Ah! Ahhhhhh, OH! Nnngh, right there, RIGHT there, oh, fuck, FUCK! Yes! Sherlock, love, so good, you’re doing so good, don’t stop, please don’t stop, stay with me, love, don’t stop…”

Sherlock somehow manages to tear his eyes away from where his turgid length is plundering the space between John’s bouncing cheeks, and he returns his gaze to John’s face.

John’s eyes are closed, and the hair falling across his forehead is damp with sweat, but his expression is one of such pure, unadulterated ecstasy, it shakes Sherlock to his very core. _He_ is doing this. _He_ is making John Watson feel like _this._ Though the intoxicating sensation of John’s body around his cock feels so pressing it’s overwhelming, he focuses all his attention on the look of bliss on John’s face. _He must keep pleasuring John._

“OH, Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, Sher-lock, nngh! Oh! Ah! Ah!” John’s eyes fly open, and he wriggles and squirms. Something about the way he’s moving trips a wire in Sherlock’s brain, and instinct takes over.

And this is the part that Sherlock loves and loathes in equal measure; the moment when his body reaches its tipping point, and he carreens past the point of no return. All of a sudden, his brain is in the passenger seat, and his transport is taking him into hyperdrive.

His hands slip away from where they were massaging John’s shoulders and slam back to the mattress, where they brace resolutely beside John’s head. Then his cock seems to send some sort of signal to the rest of his body that it’s time to _come,_ and his body moves in choreographed precision to chase that elusive release.

It’s such a strange, animalistic sensation, to suddenly have his hips snapping forward completely of their own accord, plundering John far more aggressively than Sherlock would ever allow them to when he’s in control. He knows it’s something deep and feral, an innate instinct to _mount_ and _claim,_ no different from his Neanderthal ancestors or a common mammal in rut. Even so, the loss of control is so foreign and consuming, he can’t help but cry out as he surrenders to it completely.

But John (gorgeous, perfect, incredible John), knows _just_ what to do to keep Sherlock in the moment with him. He releases his grip on the headboard and wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, holding onto him tightly. Then he throws back his head, raises his arse to meet Sherlock’s onslaught, and guides him towards his ecstasy.

“Sher! Sher! Sher-- oh! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Sherlock’s fucking him too hard for John to get a full thought out, but he’s resolutely doing his best to keep up a running commentary of encouragement. “Yeah! Yeah! Oh! Yes! Don’t-stop! Don’t-stop! YES! YES! Don’t-- AH! DON’T STOP! Oh! Ah! AHHH!” 

Sherlock can feel his hips speeding up impossibly further, pistoning into John with every ounce of strength he possesses. His feet scrabble against the bedsheets for further leverage, every instinct in his body commanding him to thrust _harder, faster, deeper, more…_ He whimpers and wails as his transport’s demands shatter every coherent thought attempting to manifest itself in his rapidly short-circuiting brain.

“Yes! I--OH! Oh, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah--” It seems John can no longer speak, but he’s making sharp little punched-out gasps with each of Sherlock’s perfectly-aimed thrusts. “Ah, ah, AH! AH! AH! AH! Ahhhhhhhhh!” John buries his face in the mattress and screams in ecstasy.

And with that, Sherlock rolls his hips and grinds his cock as deeply into John as it will go.

His orgasm slams through him, and he has just enough presence of mind to snap his hips back and withdraw his cock before the first pulse of his release spurts across John’s lower back. His right hand flies to his throbbing prick, and he jerks himself brutally as he spends himself he hot, thick pulses across John’s arse, which is still flexing in sympathetic undulations. Sherlock’s distantly aware that he’s making a strange, high-pitched whining sound as he comes, the likes of which would undoubtedly mortify him were he in a more coherent state of mind, but as it stands, all that matters is the way it feels to come all over the prone figure beneath him.

After a seeming eternity, his cock finally stops ejaculating. Sherlock gives himself a few final, gentle tugs, easing himself down from the high, the hot flesh in his hand feeling over-sensitive and raw. A final drop or two of come drips onto John’s well-coated arse, and then Sherlock slumps back to sit on his heels, shaking and breathing heavily. He feels completely disorientated.

But he can’t allow himself to fall apart just yet. Because in front of him, John is still humping the mattress, chasing his own pleasure as he finds himself on the receiving end of Sherlock’s. The muscles in his back are flexing gorgeously as he grips the headboard and grinds his pelvis into the towel beneath him, desperately seeking the friction that will culminate in his own release. Sherlock takes a deep breath, and leans forward.

He wraps his arms around John and hauls him up until John’s straddling Sherlock’s lap, John’s back pressed up against Sherlock’s chest, slumping heavily against him. Sherlock presses his lips against John’s neck, then reaches around to take John’s cock in his hand.

As is always the case when he’s received anal stimulation, John’s only half-hard. Sherlock gives himself a firm reminder that that’s no indication of John’s level of arousal (merely, as John’s always reminding him, a physiological side effect that’s _perfectly normal_ among men), and he resolutely wraps one hand around John’s shaft and begins to stroke him, while the other makes its way to cup John’s balls, fondling and squeezing them lightly.

“Ohhhhh, Christ, Sherlock, yeah, yeah, just like that, love. Oh, mmm, so perfect, yeah, that’s perfect, just like that, ohhhhh….”

John reaches up to cup one steady hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, then he twists his head around to crash their lips together in a violent tangle of teeth and tongue. They kiss deeply, desperately, John’s breathing fast and his heart rate racing as Sherlock jerks him off in quick, firm strokes, just the way he knows John likes the best.

All too soon, John breaks away, breathing hotly into Sherlock’s mouth. His eyes flutter open and his gaze meets Sherlock’s, blazing and consuming and desperate. Sherlock moves the hand on John’s cock just a tiny bit faster, and moves his other hand just a bit lower to press firmly on John’s perineum.

John’s eyes slam shut and his body bows and goes rigid, then his cock twitches once, twice, a third time before it begins to expel his release in a series of long, hard pulses.

Sherlock works John diligently through his orgasm as his pleasure crests and then gradually begins to recede. Eventually, John goes boneless and collapses heavily back into Sherlock’s arms, shaking and moaning, his eyes still closed, completely spent. Sherlock relinquishes his hold on John’s cock and balls to wrap his arms around his chest and hold him close.

And then, everything is still. Mrs. Hudson’s water pipes rattle again, then switch off. The buzz from the baby monitor feels deafening in the ensuing silence, punctuated only by their mutual gasping breaths. Everything else in the world feels frozen.

Finally, John shifts and shuffles forward on his knees, putting some space between them. Sherlock relinquishes his grip and lets him go, the air of the bedroom cool on the congealing come that had transferred from John’s arse onto Sherlock’s thighs. He’s not quite sure what to do next.

But of course, John does. He kneels up and pulls the towel out from in front of him, then uses a spare corner not already coated in semen to give his own arse a perfunctory wipe-down, then hands it back to Sherock to do the same with his cock and thighs. Then John flops onto his back and heaves a contented sigh.

“Holy shit.” John looks very dazed. Sherlock blinks down at him wordlessly. John finally meets his eye, and gives him a punch-drunk grin. “You alright?”

Sherlock nods, then looks down at his hand, which is coated in John’s come. He’s suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to have _something_ of John’s inside of him, and without thinking, he brings his fingers to his lips and begins to lick them clean.

John groans in feigned exasperation. “Oh my GOD, Sherlock, must you? Christ, I just came so hard I nearly blacked out, but when you eat my come like that, it makes me want to do bad, bad things to you.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock gives a non-commital shrug and focuses on lapping up every last trace of semen between his fingers. John watches with rapt attention as he completes his task, then opens his arms wide to pull Sherlock down to curl up against his chest.

“That was hot as hell, Sherlock. Feeling okay? Not too overwhelmed?”

“No, John. I feel alright. Good, actually. Really good.”

John gives him a reassuring squeeze. “Good. Me too. You were amazing.”

Sherlock smiles coyly and buries his face in John’s shoulder. He feels strangely bashful all of a sudden, but John doesn’t seem to mind; he just presses a few reassuring kisses into Sherlock’s hair and holds him tight.

Sherlock would have been content to fall asleep then and there, but before too long, John’s shifting and pulling away. Sherlock issues an indignant whimper, but John resolutely rises to his feet, stretching and flexing and rolling his shoulder. 

“Sorry, love, but I need to go have a bit of a wash.” He takes a step towards the bathroom and then pauses, pulling a face; clearly, he’s just become aware of the aftermath of their encounter. “Ugh, ow.”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s chest suddenly feels hot and tight.

John seems to take stock of his situation, then gives a curt nod. “Yeah, I’m fine, just… sore. Honestly, Sherlock, how the hell do you do this on a regular basis?”

Sherlock shrugs. “The stretch feels good to me, I guess. The pain doesn’t feel like pain, it feels like… I don’t know, like something else. Something satisfying. I just… like it. A lot.”

John shakes his head, blinking his eyes rapidly as he begins to make his way towards the bathroom at a considerably slower pace than before. “Christ. Lucky turn-up for me, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock nestles smugly into the pillows. “You’re very fortunate I’ve an insatiable sexual appetite and am generally enthusiastically willing to take your cock in any way, shape, or form you’ll offer it to me. Most men would be incredibly envious of the amount of sexual gratification you have on constant offer, you know.”

John chuckles as he disappears into the bathroom, and Sherlock blinks grouchily as John flicks on the bathroom light, which ruins the mood set by the candles quite completely. “Yes, Sherlock, I’m well aware that I’m one lucky bastard. You happy?”

Sherlock pauses to consider. “Nearly.”

“Nearly?” John sounds incredulous, but the sound of the sink turning on drowns out the possibility of a further retort. 

Sherlock is forced to wait patiently as he listens to the sounds of John cleaning himself up. Eventually, the water turns off and John re-emerges from the bathroom as he flicks out the light, then walks over to the nightstand to blow out the candles, his gait still awkward from his obvious discomfort. Then he clambers back onto his side of the bed and pulls Sherlock close once more.

 _“Nearly_ happy, eh? What could possibly be making you anything less than ecstatic?”

“You haven’t told me whether it worked.”

“The… um, the sex? Yeah, Sherlock, I’d’ve thought the part where I came all over the place was evidence that you performed admirably.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Not the _sex,_ John, _obviously_ that worked. I meant the massage.”

John laughs, the sound rumbly and satisfying from where Sherlock’s head is resting on his chest. “You know, I actually think it did.” Sherlock can feel John shift, apparently rolling his shoulder to test the results. “I’m feeling much better.”

Sherlock resists the urge to say _I told you so,_ and instead settles for, “Better than what Kate could do?”

“Oh my _God,_ Sherlock, you are ridiculous. Yes, your massage was infinitely better than any massage Kate ever gave me, and the fact that you rogered me senseless during the process was something quite special, indeed. It was certainly one of the top ten massages of my life.”

“Top TEN?” Sherlock sits bolt upright before noticing that John is convulsing with laughter. 

Sherlock glares down at him as he titters helplessly. “You mad berk, _of course_ it was the best massage I’ve ever had and you know it. Christ almighty. Now calm down and come here and snuggle me, I’m in desperate need of affection following such a passionate round of love-making…”

And with that, Sherlock lets himself be drawn back into John’s strong embrace, safe and secure and unwavering, keeping him warm and close. He drifts off to sleep feeling decidedly rather special, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for comments. Leave ‘em.


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